Almost
by LadyJanelly
Summary: Will is determined to return Jack, dead these past ten years, to his side. He almost succeeds. JSWT implied WTTH. OC-free crossover fic. Promise.
1. Will's day

Title: Almost

Author: Ladyjanelly

E-mail:

Feedback: gives me a reason to type and post instead of just playing with pretty images in my head.

Chapter: 1/1 (may be a prequel to a longer story if I get demand for it)

Type:FPS

Characters: Jack/Will

Rating: PG-13

Archive: Feel free, just let me know where.

Warnings: Character death (sorta) Reincarnation (sorta) AU (definitely)

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these guys.

A/N: Um, fifteen minutes of researching the history of Haiti and the timelines of the Caribbean pirates. So consider this all AU.

A/N 2: Yeah, I hope you all don't hate me at the end.

Summary: Will is determined to return Jack, dead these past ten years, to his side. He almost succeeds.

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The evening breeze was soft on Captain Turner's face, teasing through the salted-mahogany of his hair. He was a lean man, hard and strong. Shoulder-length hair was kept tied back from his face, his mustache and goatee neatly trimmed. Years of wind and sun had lined his face with fine lines around his eyes, but otherwise he was untouched by age. A whisper, a yearning that was not his own, fluttered through his consciousness, and he ran his hand over the Pearl's rail in reassurance.

"Soon, love," he whispered into the darkness. Ten years, and she still missed Jack as much as he did. He had tried to keep her happy, putting every spare coin he had into paint, wood, canvas, iron. She wore a new name, Sparrow's Pearl, on her bow. The figurehead had been damaged years back. The new maiden was as lovely as the old one, but now she held a shining black orb in one hand, and offered her other for the graceful wooden sparrow to land upon.

She was a privateer ship now, serving the British empire and the envy of much of the regular navy. She was not a ship in mourning, she was a ship awaiting the return of her rightful Captain. Ten years ago, Jack Sparrow died of an infected bullet wound. They tore planks out of the Pearl's decks to make a coffin, lined it in the silk from the bed he and Will had shared for five years and weighted it down with gold, silver, jewels.

The Pearl did not mourn him. Will Turner did not mourn him. There are things a man cannot do, and Captain Turner could not stop fighting to return his Jack, alive and well, to his side. He was sad, he was lonely, but not a single tear did he shed after Jack's coffin sank from sight.

"Captain," AnaMaria's voice was soft but firm as always. Of all the original crew, she was the only one who had not died or retired. She shared his dream, or pretended to out of friendship and loyalty. "Hispaniola ahead, sir."

He nodded. "Trim the sails. Smooth and quiet, we're too close to make a mistake."

Hours later they were unloading the longboats on an unused strip of beach. Months of planning had gone into this. The French-controlled island was not friendly to Privateers or pirates, and every man among them was well armed in case they were discovered.

They met the young mulatto man just inside of the tree-line and he led them back to the bonfire in the woods. The plantation owners allowed the slaves the religions they had brought with them from Africa, and Will's party did not expect the fire to draw undue attention.

An old black woman stepped from the crowd and held out her hand. "It has to be gold," the young man translated for her. "It has to have known him." The small hoop Will passed over had been too unimportant to bury with Jack, but he had indeed worn it on occasion. Without the promise of having his Jack returned to him, he never would have parted with it.

The woman took the trinket and the drummers began to beat. The party of pira...privateers stayed apart, watching in awe and superstitious fear as the dancers moved, the drummers drummed. Knives flashed. Goats and chickens died by the score. The fire's smoke clung to the clearing in a wholly unnatural way. The tempo built, the air seemed charged, as if a storm were sweeping in. Voices were raised in strange heathen words. Will felt his heartbeat speeding with the beat, his breathing tense, his chest tight.

He saw no sign, but all motion in the clearing stopped in a single beat. The old woman's cry cut through the silence, and she threw the ring up into the smoky air.

A man-sized shape fell down, shrouded by the haze, and Will was moving before it crumpled onto the unforgiving earth. He was shaking with hope and fear. He fell to his knees, crawling the last few feet.

Male. The figure in front of him was male, he could tell that even looking at his back. The man (he would not, could not, think of him as Jack until he knew) had landed on his side. His bandana was white, not red. No mane of lush black hair spilled from beneath it, but Will was not in love with hair. Strange clothing of some heavy canvas-like cloth made up a sleeveless vest and dungarees. The shirt beneath the vest was dark, like dried blood in the firelight.

Will was probably one of the few people that noticed that beneath the hair and clothes and bluster that Jack had been a small man. This man was small, and as Will leaned over, he saw first slender, delicate hands. Jack's hands. His heart fluttered in his chest and he reached out, rolling Ja...the man over onto his back.

An impression of youth struck him and he stared for a moment. This boy was beardless, his skin fine and smooth as any young nobleman. It took him a moment to see the lines of that face, to imagine them older. Hope made him dizzy. He brushed his fingers over those high cheekbones. _Softer than a nobleman's_, he amended his thought, _soft as a noblewoman's. _Lips so like the ones he had kissed every day for five years fell open, a soft moan slipping between them.

_I am watching a miracle,_ Will thought as booted feet moved weakly against the hard-packed earth. Graceful fingers fluttered as they searched for purchase. Will took that slim hand in his own larger, rougher one. It fit like they were made for each other. A gleam of gold caught Will's eye; a single tiny gold hoop in his left ear. And then those long dark eyelashes opened. Eyes that he knew, as well as he knew the feel of the Pearl's wheel beneath his hands, stared up at him in dazed confusion.

"You're safe," Will whispered, bringing chilled fingers to his lips. "You're returned to me, Jack. We're going home."

He could feel AnaMaria's presence behind him, though she didn't speak. He turned back to her as the hand in his began to struggle against him. Trust Jack to not want strangers to see their affection for each other. "I am satisfied," he told his first mate. "Give them the gold, we're leaving."

The ranks of privateers moved forward, six men pulling a stone chest between them. Eight hundred and eighty two pieces of Aztec gold. A small price to pay to get his Jack back. By morning this island would be a charnel house as undead slaves revolted.

Will scooped Jack, his Jack, up into his arms, amazed as always by how light the man was. A soft mumble sounded from those beautiful lips.

"What was that?" he asked, moving through the forest, heading for the Pearl.

"I said..." the voice that was Jack's yet smoother andcleaner murmured, "You picked the wrong guy..." It was barely a whisper, yet fierce and proud. Will smiled. "Doug'll find me and kill you. Nobody messes with the McQuaid brothers..."

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A/N: Bonus points to anyone under 20 who gets the joke.

A/N 2: Pretty pretty please review the writing and the plot as you percieve it, even if you dont get the joke? No matter how long it's been between the time I wrote it and the time you read it. Thank you, thank you.


	2. Tom's day

Officer Tom Hanson slouched in the back booth of the local Rocket-Dog, sipping a soda, waiting for his partner to join him. Of course the world didn't see him that way. The casual observer saw some punk high-school kid in a white bandana, with angry eyes and a sneer for human contact. The students of the school he had been inserted into knew him as Tommy McQuaid; trouble-making, drug-dealing, dangerous brother to the equally bad (and currently over-due) Doug McQuaid.

He glanced out the window, looking for Doug. For all that he was a kidder, Doug was a good cop, and late just wasn't like him. Tom's brown eyes met those of some accountant-looking guy passing by, and he snarled just for effect. The man flinched a little and continued on his way. Tom might gripe about using the McQuaid persona, but of all the identities he had used over the last six months, it was growing to fit him best. It was like wearing a bullet-proof vest. He felt stronger, tougher as McQuaid. Something about the sleeveless denim jacket, the leather belts, the gleam of the chrome buckles made him feel good in a way he had never allowed himself before.

McQuaid didn't let people mess with him. McQuaid didn't get hurt. Tommy McQuaid would never have lost his virginity to some guy he met in a bar, and he sure wouldn't have been sad that the man left as soon as they were done.

Tom frowned at the memory, then deeper as he saw the door to the Rocket-Dog open and not Doug, but the drug dealer they were supposed to buy from come in.

"Asshole, you're late!"

They argued and snapped at each other and in the end, the dealer's threat of "Now or never," convinced him to make the buy alone, rather than risk his cover.

The second he stepped through the huge sliding doors of the abandoned warehouse, he knew he had made a mistake. Something hard and heavy smacked the back of his head and before he could recover, some gorilla had his left arm pinned behind his back, a monster of a hand holding his throat. The weasely punk dealer grabbed his right hand, holding it with both of his. Tom fought, twisting and kicking, but he was still dazed by the blow to the head and the hand on his windpipe was choking the resistance out of him.

Another man stepped out at him. A knife flashed in the dim light, and he cut open the sleeve of Tom's shirt from where the punk held it at the wrist to above his elbow. "What are you doing?" Tom demanded, struggling anew as a length of rubber tubing was wrapped around his upper arm. Three taps and the vein stood up from his arm. The man reached behind him for a hypodermic needle, squirted a tiny bit of fluid out of it into the air, then stabbed it into that bulging vein.

He realized they were letting him see their faces. They weren't going to let him live to testify. Whatever was in this needle wasn't meant to kill him, but it seemed they expected him to die soon enough.

The bite of the needle was like fire as it tore through his skin. He shouted and tried to yank himself away; heard the sickening pop as his left shoulder was wrenched from the socket.

"Get the fuck off of me!" he screamed, knowing the warehouse was too far out of the way to hope someone would hear him. The men ignored him and started dragging him towards the far end of the building. Whatever they had put in his arm began to fog his senses almost immediately. His body seemed to slip away from him. He could feel the odd pressure of his shoulder, but not the pain of it.

The edge of a loading dock dropped away in front of him, the open trunk of a car below it waiting. With a grunt, the man behind him tossed him over the edge.

He fell forever, limp and weightless in an unexplainable darkness. He wondered if they had accidentally killed him with whatever was in the needle. He wondered if he would ever hit the trunk.

The smell of woodsmoke and a stench like burning hair burned his nose. He hit packed earth on his bad shoulder, hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He couldn't move for a second, trying to gather his wits despite the drugs in his system. Smoke and flames surrounded him, and he couldn't figure out how he had arrived here from the warehouse.

A man was speaking, but all that Tom could understand was "Safe," and "Going home." He wondered what had happened. He wondered if this guy was a paramedic, and he wondered where Doug was.

His hand was lifted, and he felt lips press to his fingers. _Not right. Not good. _Hebegan to struggle anew. Wherever he was, it wasn't where he should be.

"You're dead," Tom groaned as he was lifted into the man's arms. The drug was slurring his words, and he wasn't sure if he had spoken them aloud, or just thought he had.

"What was that?" So polite for a drug-dealing kidnapping asshole. Tom made the effort to be clearer the next time.

"I said...You picked the wrong guy, scumbag... Doug's gonna mess you up. _Nobody_ fucks with the McQuaid brothers..."


End file.
